


som tam

by mongoliabun



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Challenge: ciscoshipweek, Emotional Constipation, Episode: s01e12 Crazy For You, Exes, Gap Filler, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoliabun/pseuds/mongoliabun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taking supervillains out to lunch was so not in the job description. AKA The One Where Cisco Buys Hartley A Hat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	som tam

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I wrote this for #CiscoShipWeek on Tumblr, but never did get around to posting the whole thing (I posted a preview a million years ago, and it took me this long to finally finish it, yikes!) so here it is, in all its messy, emotionally constipated glory. I promise there's a good surprise near the end. ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading and enjoy!

"It'll look a little _conspicuous_ where we're going next," Hartley sneers up at him as if the answer is obvious, but he still hasn't told Cisco where exactly they're going, what they're doing, or how any of this has to do with Ronnie's not-so-death or Martin Stein's disappearance.

"Mind telling me where that is?" Cisco asks tersely, thumb still pressed firmly on the control knob of the device that is currently his only leverage against getting his ass kicked again. Sure, he held his own against Hartley, and he could again, but he'd rather avoid Hartley's elbow reconnecting with his face if he can help it.

Hartley rolls his eyes and rises to his feet, tilting his head in the direction they need to be going. "The Central City precinct?" he says, waiting for that spark to ignite behind Cisco's eyes when he finally understands something. Hartley doesn't understand what's taking him so long to put the pieces together — he wouldn't be surprised if Cisco was actually dumber than he was before without Hartley around to constantly keep him on his toes.

"You say that like it's supposed to mean something," Cisco mumbles, but after an expectant look from Hartley and his own curiosity getting the better of him yet again, he finally shoves the control device back into his pocket. "Don't try anything, or I _will_ turn it back on," he warns, and Hartley nods impatiently, holding out his wrists.

Cisco wonders if he could just ask Joe or Eddie about all of this, but he doesn't exactly want it to get back to Dr. Wells or Caitlin, and he's not even sure they'd know anything, or where to look, and there would probably have to be some sort of side investigation and, honestly, Cisco doesn't have time for that. Ronnie probably doesn't have time for that. Hartley has the exact information Cisco needs, when he needs it. They're in this together, for now, and only until Hartley holds up his end of the deal.

"Will it make you feel better if I promise, Cisco?" Hartley says dryly.

Cisco's expression hardens, his jaw tensing as he works to release Hartley from the handcuffs. "No," he says through clenched teeth. "That would mean I'd have to trust you first." He tightens the cuffs around Hartley's wrists on purpose before he releases the lock mechanism. He can hear Hartley wince, but he tells himself he doesn't care. Hartley deserves it. "You don't keep your promises, anyway."

He expects Hartley to respond with something sarcastic, something like _only the ones worth keeping_ , but he doesn't say anything, which Cisco is thankful for. He's not sure how he's going to survive a whole day with Hartley's condescension and disdain at maximum power. "There," he says, when the handcuffs are off and on the ground. "Can we go?"

"Finally," Hartley says, rubbing at his wrists. "You really do like it rough, Cisco."

"Shut up," Cisco growls, shoving Hartley forward. "I know you're just playing me for more time out of the pipeline, but one way or another your butt is headed right back to that cell. And I _do_ keep my promises."

Hartley looks back at Cisco over his shoulder, keeping his gait casual so Cisco won't think he's trying to run off. "You're so _touchy_ today," he croons, mouth drawing into an open grin. He falls back to Cisco's side, holding his hand out to him. "Maybe you ought to hold my hand. You know, like the buddy system. I know Harrison would be so disappointed in you if you lost me."

Cisco rolls his eyes and swats Hartley's hand away. "Stop it, Hartley," he says, but there isn't much conviction to it. He knows Hartley is right. He's the one taking a risk on Hartley and the odds aren't exactly in his favor. "Do you even know how to get to the CCPD from here?"

Hartley glances at him incredulously. "I tricked you into locking me up so I could break out and steal your records on The Flash, and you don't think I know how to get to the CCPD from here?" His eyebrows raise expectantly. "Please, Cisco, I know you're smarter than that. Try to act like it, would you? It'll make this day a lot more bearable for the both of us." He nods in the direction they need to be going and doesn't bother waiting before he pulls ahead of Cisco and takes the lead. "Follow me. We're going to have to make a pit stop first, but only because the _least_ you could do is let me have some _real_ food while we're out. Take out is so unpleasant."

Cisco follows closely behind Hartley, childishly mimicking how he talks behind his back. This is going to be a _long_ day.

—

"You weren't kidding about Thai," Cisco says once they're seated on the patio of a small (probably expensive) Thai restaurant in the middle of downtown.

"I never joke about Thai, Cisco," Hartley responds flatly, staring at the menu while Cisco takes in the scenery around them. Hartley's been to this particular restaurant enough times to know the menu by heart, but he prefers to let Cisco think he isn't staring at him over the top of the menu. It's obvious Cisco's never been to this part of town, which doesn't really surprise Hartley given how close they are to the heart of downtown where all the rich millennial folk reside in their high rise apartments and expensive condominiums. It's definitely not Cisco's scene.

When Cisco focuses back on Hartley, Hartley's eyes casually glance over the glossy laminate in front of his face. "That's a weird thing not to joke about," he says, face pinching into a strange expression only Cisco could ever pull off. "But you never did have a very good sense of humor." He shrugs, sniffing, and goes back to staring at the buildings. "Still don't," he adds pointedly.

Hartley sets the menu down and leans forward on the table, arms crossed over the tabletop. "We could play this game all day, Cisco," he says calmly. Cisco is doing that thing where he's clearly paying attention but trying his hardest to pretend he isn't. "Or we could forget the past. We've both changed. There's no sense reminding me of who I _used_ to be." He tilts his head expectantly, brows raised, when Cisco finally looks at him. "Unless you'd like a few reminders yourself."

Cisco huffs, folding his arms across his chest. "Yeah, no thanks. You can keep all your reminders to yourself." Cisco doesn't need them, anyway. Hartley's existence in his life again is reminder enough of everything — good and bad. Cisco won't admit to much of the good anymore, won't give Hartley the satisfaction of acknowledging they had anything better than a dysfunctional professional partnership. "I just want to know what happened to Ronnie. For Caitlin," he adds quickly, though the angle of Hartley's brow remains within the realm of _unconvinced_.

Cisco has always been something of an open book for Hartley — but that's what happens when you express everything in emotion. Hartley only expresses emotions selectively, only when they really matter, when they'll have the most desired effect. Cisco lets his emotions run wild, which only makes them easier to prey on. "Patience never was your strong suit," Hartley comments helpfully, leaning back in his chair to wave their waiter down.

"And tact was never yours," Cisco grumbles, attempting to ignore the way Hartley's mouth draws into an amused smirk. _That wasn't supposed to be funny, you jerk_ , he thinks, and for a split second he's immeasurably relieved that Hartley only developed some kind of sonic superhearing and not telepathy in the wake of the accelerator explosion. If Hartley could hear Cisco's thoughts on top of everything else ... Cisco doesn't want to think about how much more ammo Hartley would have on him then.

Hartley orders something Cisco's never heard of and Cisco only asks that their waiter keep the Dr Peppers coming. He wishes this place served alcohol, but given that he's with Hartley, being even a little under the influence probably wouldn't be the best idea. It sure would ease the edge a little, though.

It annoys him how polite Hartley is to the waiter, how he's all smiles (that aren't even close to being genuine) and general good manners. Cisco knows the high society etiquette is probably still hardwired into Hartley's mainframe, but the fact that Hartley is even trying to fool anyone anymore pisses Cisco off — especially because it works.

Their waiter winks at Hartley and when Hartley turns back to face Cisco, Cisco wants to punch the pride right off his stupid face. "I think he likes me," Hartley says, grinning proudly to himself.

"Yeah, well, he's only met your face, not your personality," Cisco responds pointedly enough it seems to deflate Hartley's ego balloon for at least a moment — a moment Cisco wished lasted longer than a nanosecond.

Hartley cocks an eyebrow at him. "Don't tell me you're jealous, Cisco," he says, and Cisco looks like Hartley just kicked his dog — which, honestly, Cisco wouldn't put past him ... if he had a dog, anyway.

"You've got to be kidding me," Cisco says, the pitch of his voice an odd mix between incredulous and offended. " _No_ ," he adds firmly when Hartley doesn't look convinced. Hartley simply holds his hands up as if to say _Sure, Cisco, whatever you say_ , but the gesture is more patronizing than it is reassuring. Cisco huffs, folding his arms more tightly to his chest, slouching further into the metal patio chair.

"It was an honest question," Hartley says coolly, shrugging his shoulders. "I know what you like."

Cisco's eye visibly twitches, his jaw tightening as the rest of his posture tenses, despite how casual he tries to remain. "We're _not_ talking about that," he says, enunciating every word very clearly. He knows Hartley is just trying to push his buttons — it's working — but Cisco's never been very good at just _ignoring_ Hartley, despite that being the most foolproof way of getting him to shut up. Right now, Cisco's only egging him on.

"Talking about what?" Hartley asks innocently, as if he doesn't know. "The fact that I know your type?" Cisco refuses to answer, refuses to look at him. If he doesn't say anything, maybe Hartley will stop. The only problem is, Hartley's far too bored and Cisco is far too vulnerable for Hartley to give up so easily. "You've always had a thing for brunettes ... or have you moved on to redheads now? You know, I think Ronnie might feel a little betrayed if he knew. Unless, of course ..." He pauses to gauge Cisco's reaction. Cisco's silence, the anger brimming in his eyes, is answer enough. Hartley almost looks impressed. "Oh, Cisco," he sighs, shaking his head and clicking his tongue as if he's disappointed, as if he even _cares_. "That's just _messy_. You know it'll never work."

Hartley watches Cisco's jaw tense before he finally sets his eyes on Hartley and growls in Spanish, " _Shut up_ ," and for once, Hartley actually does. Cisco's eyes are intense as they bore into Hartley's skull. " _You forced me to move on, Hartley, so_ you _don't get to talk about what will and won't work_ or _with whom because, you know what? You had your chance and you_ blew it." He doesn't realize people are staring. He wouldn't care if he did. The look on Hartley's face, eyes intent like he wants to say something but isn't sure what, more than makes up for the concerned glances of onlookers.

So what if Cisco is making a scene? Hartley's done worse. He started it, anyway — not that it makes Cisco's outburst any more excusable, but Hartley had this coming, and Cisco isn't done. Not by a long shot.

The patio chair screeches against the concrete as Cisco sits up straighter, poised as if he's about to pounce across the table and rip Hartley to shreds. He'll certainly do his best to rip Hartley a new one. He scoffs, shaking his head disgracefully. He's mad enough he knows he's not speaking English anymore, but he knows Hartley still understands every single word. " _If this is some backwards way of trying to get me back, you can forget it. You had a whole_ year _to let me know you were alive, and how do you finally make your grand entrance? By nearly_ killing _me_ and _The Flash. I can forgive a lot of things, Hartley, but this_ isn't _one of them. So, please, just do me a favor and_ shut up."

Cisco can feel his heart pounding against his chest, desperate to burst through his rib cage and right onto the table. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his pulse as he relaxes back into a more casual, if not a little slumped, posture. His eyes are still on Hartley, who hasn't actually said anything yet. Cisco knows it's too good to be true, but he feels relieved for longer than he expected to.

It's when Hartley starts to _clap_ , slow and deliberate, that Cisco's nerves go haywire all over again. God, Hartley really doesn't know when to stop.

"Very impressive, Cisco," he says, not that he sounds very impressed in the least. He looks mostly bored, if not mildly entertained (at Cisco's expense, of course). "That really was quite the scene. In _Spanish_ and everything. Have you ever thought of taking up acting? You know, since your future in science doesn't seem to hold much promise these days. I’m sure there’s a telenovela that would love your skill." His mouth draws into wry grin. "You spend all your time pretending, anyway."

Cisco wishes he could get up and scream, storm off and leave Hartley there — but he knows, _he knows_ , that's exactly what Hartley wants him to do. He's doing all of this on purpose, to rile Cisco up enough that he abandons this outing entirely. Cisco still has his leverage, could blast the most piercing frequency into Hartley's ears, but he's not _cruel_ and Hartley hasn't done enough to deserve that again — not _yet,_ anyway. Words are just words, after all, and Cisco wouldn't be much better than Hartley if he responded to them with torture.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to respond at all. He's never been more glad to see a strange pile of stringy-looking food in his life.

They both smile politely at the waiter and for a brief instant everything feels _normal_ , like a lunch date with anyone else would feel. But once the waiter asks if he can get them anything else and they say _no, I think that's it; we're good for now_ , the negative energy sparks between them again like a very pissed off light switch.

"You should really try some if you've never had it," Hartley says casually — _too_ casually. If Cisco weren't entirely sure Hartley didn't have anything on him, he'd be worried Hartley might try to poison him. He still might be a little worried, honestly. He wasn't exactly paying attention to Hartley flirting with their waiter earlier. Who knows what they could have said to each other? Cisco knows better than anyone how persuasive Hartley can be with the wink of an eye and those infuriating pouty lips.

He's probably just being paranoid, but this is still Hartley Rathaway he's dealing with, and leverage or no leverage, Hartley's already tried to kill him once before. "Yeah, no thanks," Cisco mumbles, sipping his Dr Pepper petulantly. "Just eat your damn food."

Hartley actually does what he's told for once, and Cisco is thankful he doesn't have to deal with Hartley's antagonizing attitude while he eats. Cisco goes through about two and a half Dr Peppers before Hartley flags their waiter down again and asks for the check, to which he very sweetly adds, "It's together," which just makes Cisco bristle. He knew he'd be paying for this little excursion, considering Hartley doesn't exactly have a penny to his name at the moment, but it still irks him that he's paying at all.

"You really don't have _any_ money on you?" he asks, fishing out his wallet from his back pocket.

Hartley rolls his eyes. If he had anything on him, they would have confiscated it when they threw him in their makeshift pipeline prison. "We could always dine and dash, if you prefer," he suggests. Cisco can't tell if he's being sarcastic or not. "I'm already a criminal, after all, and you ..." He nods his head to the side, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. "Well, we all have our sins, don't we, Cisco?"

If Cisco wanted to make a scene again, he would have punched Hartley's smug face right then and there, but instead he just sits there, shaking his head. "Yeah, whatever," he says noncommittally, dragging a twenty from his wallet and throwing it on the table. "Just don't think this is gonna happen again, because it's not." Taking supervillains out to lunch was _so_ not in the job description.

Hartley shrugs, his shoulders as indifferent as his expression. "Let's get going then, shall we?"

—

Despite the fact that he's walking down the street with a wanted criminal, Cisco isn't exactly expecting too much trouble. Hartley knows if he tries to pull anything, he's not going to get what he wants, so making a scene and trying to escape in the middle of the street isn't really in his best interests, not with so many witnesses, and definitely not knowing what Cisco still has in his pocket. He's good at keeping a low profile when he wants to. Cisco would almost be glad for it if he didn't hate Hartley so much.

Except hating him is easy. It's _knowing_ him that's harder. And it's knowing that Larry, one of Hartley's (definitely evil) exes, is right down the street and headed their way and Cisco's not enough of an asshole to let that reunion happen because he _knows_ what went down between the two of them and it wasn't pretty. Hartley recognizes him, too, but he's got too much pride to say anything. He'd rather run straight into an oncoming train than admit he's afraid of it.

"Hartley," Cisco urges, and they both know what he's urging _against_. He may hate Hartley, but not as much as Larry does — and that's saying a lot. " _Come on_ ," he grumbles, grabbing for Hartley's hand without thinking and pulling him toward a bench near the sidewalk, sitting awkwardly, and too close, next to him.

Hartley stares at Cisco, then their hands, then down the street where Larry is still advancing on them. Cisco looks after him, sighing in mild frustration when he sees the paleness of Hartley's face, like he's trying very hard not to panic outwardly. Cisco knows Hartley could most definitely fuck Larry up if he had his gauntlets with him — a thought that Cisco finds, surprisingly, not that unpleasant. But the thing that surprises him the most is the idea that he wouldn't care if Hartley managed to permanently damage any part of Larry's body, because, frankly, the asshole deserves it. And it's a thought like that that scares him and makes him eternally grateful that Hartley is, functionally, harmless right now.

"I'm assuming you have a plan," Hartley says in a terse whisper, still staring intently down the street, trying to calculate Larry's trajectory and estimated time of arrival. It would be obvious even to anyone without a physics degree that he's still headed in their exact direction; the numbers in Hartley's head confirm that hypothesis, only adding to his muted panic. "We're sitting ducks like this."

"Trust me," Cisco says, surprising himself with each syllable, but still somehow managing to sound a lot more sure of himself than he feels. (How long has it been since he uttered those words and meant them?) He's not even sure Hartley will go along with it — the crazy, stupid, ridiculous idea that may or may not work — but with every passing moment, Larry's feet carry him closer to their little bench. They're running out of time.

Hartley's focus realigns with Cisco, his eyebrows knotted together like Cisco's just spoken a foreign language he _doesn't_ know fluently and simultaneously grown a second head. Trust is a harrowed subject between them, one which Hartley is most certainly aware of, and often uses against him. Like now — except not _now_ , exactly, because this isn't a situation Hartley knows how to manipulate. He wouldn't say he's entirely at Cisco's mercy, but trusting him seems to be Hartley's only option at the moment if he wants to avoid a particular blowout with his particularly nasty ex while being _particularly_ and inconveniently unarmed.

Their gaze holds, and for a moment Cisco sees something in Hartley he hasn't seen in a long time — vulnerability. He thinks Hartley knows it, too, from the tenseness of his eyebrows, and the intensity of his eyes willing him to get on with whatever it is he has planned.

He only realizes they're still holding hands when Hartley squeezes his, a sign of silent affirmation. Cisco spares one last glance down the sidewalk, then his other hand settles against Hartley's cheek and their mouths crash together as hard and as fast as their hearts must be beating. Cisco can only feel his own, thumping against his ribcage, his throat tight with anxiety — not entirely because of Larry and what might happen if he noticed Hartley, but ... this, _them_ , kissing, for the first time since everything went to shit.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. This wasn't supposed to happen at all. Of all the things Hartley could have predicted about this little excursion, kissing Cisco Ramon — Cisco Ramon kissing _him_ — never factored in. Not even once, because the chance of it ever happening was more miniscule than, say, a certain someone getting struck by lightning and coming out of it with superspeed. _That_ wasn't supposed to happen, either, and yet it did. Barry Allen was chosen, and Hartley was outcast by the only person he ever thought of as family. Cisco certainly isn't choosing him, right now — this is nothing more than another infuriating demonstration of the _heart_ Cisco is incapable of getting rid of. Were the situations reversed, Hartley would have thrown him to the dogs just to see him get bit.

It's not even a good kiss, really. Too much teeth, not enough time to figure out where their tongues should go, a little too hard pressed (and not in the rough way Cisco usually likes). There's something _missing_ from it. That spark they had once, maybe, because this particular kiss doesn't come from a place of bitter rivalry or carnal passion or years of pent up frustration — and it doesn't come from some softer place, either, that they only ever knew once or twice. This is something masquerading as neutral, trying to misdirect any feelings involved, which ultimately makes it a little disappointing. (These days, anyone Hartley kisses is a little disappointing.)

They've both had better, with and without each other, they both know that much. But, even as clumsy and unfamiliar as it is, it's still _a_ kiss, and it's Hartley, and as much as Cisco never wanted this to mean anything — it does. It means _something_. Would he really be sitting here kissing Hartley as a distraction from his evil ex if he didn't care? Would Hartley really be sitting here kissing him back if they didn't both want to? Neither of them would ever admit to anything, but the questions still nag at Cisco even as Hartley pulls away, scanning the sidewalk for any sign of Larry.

"I think he's gone," he finally says after a thorough assessment. Cisco expects him to say something crude like _But I'm sure there's a bathroom we can continue this in_ , but it never comes. Hartley doesn't say anything else — the taste of Dr Pepper is still on his lips, fonder memories threatening to flood his brain, which he can most definitely _not_ allow — and all Cisco can do is stare at him like he's suddenly become a total stranger. Hartley, without the knowledge that Cisco is a highly-functioning imbecile, might have wondered if Cisco had lost his mind just now. Cisco's not even sure he knows _himself_ anymore. Did that really just happen? Is he really that stupid? Hartley would surely answer _yes_ , and _completely_.

He almost does say something snide, but for once he holds his tongue. He considers a thank you, for an infinitesimal second that might make the Flash jealous, before he decides against it. Rewarding stupidity with praise — even if it _did_ actually work — isn't something Hartley makes a habit of. He can't let Cisco think Hartley is in his debt, anyway (or that, perhaps, it's unearthed something in him he would rather stay buried). "What?" he snaps instead, breaking the silence between them, nearly causing Cisco to jump straight off the bench.

"Nothing," Cisco insists, taking his hand back like a petulant child, his natural defenses flaring up red hot again. Of course they aren't going to _talk_ about it, and it's not like Cisco even wants to. It never happened, it didn't mean anything. Hartley is still a world class jerk and a known criminal currently in his custody and that's the end of it.

And yet ... there's a sinking feeling somewhere in his chest, like he still isn't good enough. "We should go."

—

The next few blocks are spent in uncomfortable silence, Cisco's only comfort that there are only a few more blocks after that until they reach their destination and they can finally get this day over with. But Hartley hasn't said anything snarky in the past ten minutes, which worries Cisco probably more than it should, if only because sarcasm is Hartley's defense mechanism, so if he isn't being rude, there's probably something on his mind. Like, _really_ on his mind. And, truthfully, Cisco isn't sure he wants to know what that is.

"Okay, seriously," Cisco grumbles, "just say _something_."

"Something," Hartley responds flatly, continuing to lead them on without another word. He doesn't owe Cisco anything, not even saving his miserable hide from Larry, not when Cisco has every intention of tossing him right back into that cell if Hartley can't find a way to shake him without causing a scene. He hasn't forgotten about that device in Cisco's pocket.

Cisco rolls his eyes so far back into his head he thinks they might get stuck. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

"Yes, and you kissed me, so what does that make you?" Hartley looks over his shoulder long enough to give Cisco a smug grin, and that's it. They're back to playing this game. He shouldn't have expected any better.

It takes a lot of effort not to throw his arms in the air and give up. Sometimes, that would be a lot easier with Hartley. "You're welcome," he says instead, indignation clear in his tone.

"All that just so Larry wouldn't see me," Hartley sighs, an obvious attempt to rile Cisco again. He sounds bored, unimpressed, _ungrateful_ , and Cisco wishes he could just take it all back. Go back in time and let Larry run into them, let Hartley shit himself and try to talk circles around a guy twice his size, who had no qualms over beating the shit out of Hartley in the past. His parents never even visited, while Hartley was in the hospital. He could have died, and the only people who bothered to care were his coworkers.

Cisco can't take it back, he knows that. He doesn't _really_ want to, either, isn't even sure he could if he tried. It's just an irrational thought, brought on by Hartley's uncanny ability to infuriate him at the drop of a hat. He thinks it's probably a good thing, then, that he wasn't the one who got struck by lightning that night.

Hartley glances sideways at Cisco, who is very silently seething. Hartley has seen enough of Cisco's silent tantrums by now that he clearly isn't phased, his lips twisting upward casually. "You're going to have to do a lot more of that if you expect to make it through the precinct without anyone recognizing a known criminal who, as far as I'm aware, is on the run from the law."

Cisco hates when Hartley is right. He sets his jaw, trying to think of an alternative to — well, that. Because _that_ is completely out of the question. Making out with Hartley, for one, is a definite no; but making out with Hartley in the middle of the Central City _precinct_? Hell no. He's not about to go backwards, slide downhill into something he can't find his way out of again. One panicked kiss in an attempt to spare Hartley from something terrible isn't about to lead to some bizarre police fantasy of Hartley's.

" _Or_ ," Cisco starts, very pointedly, "we could, I don't know, get you a disguise. A mustache or something. Do drugstores sell fake mustaches?"

The grin on Hartley's face turns vaguely disgusted at Cisco's proposition. " _That's_ your idea?" he sneers. "Yes, brilliant, Cisco. Let's get the one thing that would make me look even _more_ like a criminal."

Okay, so, Cisco can't really argue there. He can live with this one small defeat. "Fine," he says calmly, holding his hands up in defense. "What would _you_ suggest?"

"It's called a hat, Cisco," Hartley says matter-of-factly, gesturing across the street at the bright yellow sign for a dollar store. "I assume you can _afford_ one?"

Cisco rolls his eyes as they cross the street. "I'm billing you for this when you're less broke and/or likely to kill me, I'm just saying."

The store is mostly deserted, except for a bored cashier behind the front counter, who doesn't even look up when the bell on the door rings as they enter. Typical, really. It's not like anyone actually expects decent customer service in places like these. Hartley follows Cisco through the aisles, picking up random objects for inspection and then placing them back in entirely the wrong place without any regard whatsoever. _Also_ typical. He's obviously just trying to make more work for the employees to do, but in the most passive aggressive way possible. Cisco almost expects him to spill something and make a huge mess just so he can announce with that patronizing voice of his, "Clean up on Aisle Three!"

Hartley does no such thing. Torturing simple-minded retail monkeys isn't worth his time; the payoff isn't nearly as satisfying as watching the surprised look on Cisco's face when Hartley manages to behave himself.

Cisco exchanges about five words with the cashier once they find their way back up front with a plain black cap, and while Cisco thanks him, he can tell Hartley is doing his best not to say anything snide (he always has something to _say_ ), either about the state of the store or the attitude of the cashier or some other miniscule criticism only a person raised with money would have. Even disowned from his entire inheritance, Hartley reeks of privilege, always has. That much Cisco is sure will never change.

Thankfully, the transaction doesn't last long enough for Hartley to get a word in edgewise, and Cisco makes sure to usher them back to the street before he manages. "Here," Cisco says insistently, tearing off the price tag while they continue to walk. He passes the hat to Hartley. "You're welcome. Again." Not that he particularly means it, because doting on Hartley Rathaway had not been on his schedule for today. Or ever. (Okay, maybe _once_ , but that was a long, long time ago.)

Hartley takes the hat without any thanks (of _course_ ) and settles it on his head. It reeks of stale _everything_ , and the light scent of smoke, but Hartley can't exactly complain when he's this much closer to achieving his endgame. The lights from the precinct in the distance glow gold in the waning light of early evening. Hartley nods in its general direction. "Now, before you get too excited, Cisco, there's one more thing," he says, glancing over to Cisco with an expectant look. "I hope you know your way into the crime lab."

—

Cisco  _does_ know his way into the crime lab, just as he knows the password to Barry's computer in said crime lab (GaGaIris89 is about as secure as the security in the precinct — they practically waltzed in without a spare glance from anyone — but that's another conversation for another time). Hartley hovers behind him near the window, impatient, but not unwilling to spill the beans.

"CCPD confiscated everything from STAR Labs after the explosion," Hartley explains as Cisco's fingers fly across the keyboard, keying in commands and prompts to pull up various archive footage from the CCPD database. Most of them Barry has clearance for, but some require a little extra work. "Video, audio, traffic cam footage."

"Okay, so?" Cisco says, somewhat hopefully. This is it. They're here, it's happening, and he'll finally know what happened to Ronnie. He'll finally be  _done_ with Hartley.

"I saw Martin Stein the night STAR Labs went boom," Hartley continues casually. "He walked right past me." Cisco's typing slows for a moment, his brows drawn together as he tries to puzzle together this new information with what else he knows — which is very little. He hadn't even known Hartley was _there_ that night. Obviously, he had to have been within radius of the explosion, but actually  _at_ STAR Labs? It makes him furious all over again, to know now they could have had a better ending — maybe Cisco could have even convinced Hartley to stay. Something, anything, better than the nothing he got, and the nothing he still feels like he is.

The familiarity of Hartley's patronizing voice cuts through his thoughts. "You see, Stein specialized in transmutation. Molecular transmogrify, quantum splicing." When Cisco blinks, unsure of what Hartley is trying to imply, Hartley merely gives him that expectant look Cisco's seen a hundred times before. Honestly, Hartley shouldn't have to spell it out for him like this. "Taking two things," he says more slowly, a singsong air to his voice, "and making them one."

Cisco stares at Hartley, the gears in his brain desperately grasping for the conclusion Hartley thinks is so obvious and coming up with nothing. It's infuriating, that Cisco still can't see it. He rolls his eyes heavily. "Let's go to the videotape, shall we?"

They can at least agree on that. Cisco brings up the footage from the night of the accident, the night everything changed. The playback shows Martin Stein on the steps of STAR Labs, the very same Hartley had tried to escape from earlier. "Okay, stop," Hartley says quickly, and Cisco rushes to pause the video. "Zoom in a few clicks." The computer makes a few beeps as Cisco zooms in, enlarging the shape of Professor Stein. "Now, advance it frame-by-frame."

The furrow in Cisco's brow only deepens. Each frame shows clear evidence of Stein being hit by the dark matter wave, except — "His eyes," Cisco says, leaning in closer to the screen. "They turned white, just like Ronnie's." As the frames continue, a different matter of wave appears to course directly into Stein, a wave with — a face.

"Stop, there," Hartley insists. "In the mass of energy, looks like —"

"— Ronnie," Cisco breathes, finally coming to the same conclusion as Hartley.

"And Professor Stein," Hartley adds, just in case Cisco still hasn't figured it out.

Cisco plays back the video at full speed, fascinated and in awe at the same time. He can hardly believe it, except these days, anything is possible. "The dark matter merged them together."

"Explains why Ronnie doesn't seem quite himself lately." Cisco doesn't notice the way Hartley voice goes slightly muffled, doesn't notice the fact that Hartley isn't just standing by watching anymore, waiting patiently for Cisco to take him back to his cell now that their bargain is complete — and Hartley seizes the opportunity, while Cisco is distracted by finally having all the answers about poor, selfless Ronnie, to remove the hearing device from his ear. He never had any intention of sticking around, or being locked up again. Cisco had to have known that, but sometimes Cisco is just that stupid. He lets his guard down, and Hartley takes advantage of it. He always has. A kiss can't change that — even if, once, it did, when it held promise of more than just mouths and Hartley begging Cisco not to stop. Now, the only promise Cisco has to offer is his contempt and reconfinement. Hartley held up his end of the deal. Cisco should have been more careful with whom he made a deal with.

Sharp noise pierces Hartley's eardrums when the device is fully removed, and he does his best not to scream. Cisco may not forgive Hartley for this, for anything, but Hartley never wanted his forgiveness. He only wants what he's due. Another day, perhaps. "Because he's not," he concludes, triggering the device in his hands. "He's Martin Stein."

An even sharper noise screeches to life. Cisco yells out in agony, hands instinctively flying to cover his ears, even as he falls unceremoniously out of Barry Allen's chair. This could have very easily happened to Larry as well (Hartley wishes it had), if Cisco couldn't have just turned it around on him. Now they're all alone, and Cisco's out of moves. Checkmate.

"Can't say I didn't keep up my end of the bargain," Hartley drones as Cisco writhes and groans on the floor. He feels Hartley pull the sonic device from his pocket — Cisco's only leverage — and futilely attempts to reach it before Hartley crushes it under his boot. The screeching is piercing, like Hartley is personally stabbing him in the ears over and over again. Cisco should have seen this coming. Dr. Wells is going to kill him, if Hartley doesn't get to it first.  _Would_ he, though? Actually kill him? The swift kick of Hartley's boot to his side seems to indicate an answer, but it stops there. He took every chance to attempt to kill Barry, and yet here Cisco is, still breathing. He almost wants to laugh, and then cry at the idea that Hartley might _care_ whether Cisco lives or dies, but all he can manage is a helpless grunt.

"I figure that makes us Even Steven." Hartley barely spares a last distasteful look before he steps over Cisco's writhing form. "Adios," is the last thing Cisco hears, one final punch to the gut as Hartley retreats from the precinct, leaving Cisco to his bruises and his wounded pride and hating Hartley all the more for it.


End file.
